Miracles in Guise

Last Winter
when the crisp air numbed your skin
you said this is love
two people wanting to stay together
and maybe that is when we fell apart,
when even our hearts went numb,
when we realised that some years down the line,
you would want your cigarettes
and I would want my coffee mugs.
That you won’t smoke,
while I drink.

You know,
you wanted the Universe
while all I had were my poems
each one written for you.
And now sometimes I wonder
if we were too much in the poems
to be anything in real,
as you paused at each syllable
and stared at me
as if I were a miracle.
Miracles are lies,
We were deceivers.

This Summer,
as I write this,
I hope you don’t pause
looking into the morning’s first ray of sunlight;
realising that
our love was just one particle of it,
lost before found.

And now if someone asks me,
what love is,
I would pause at the syllables you did.
I would recite to him,
all my poems written for you,
as if they are all for him;
because aren’t we all liars
dressed as miracles
carrying the burden
of past
handing it over
and never leaving it behind.